


'Tis The Season

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Boys Kissing, Kilts, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Being a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock agrees to wear a kilt to Mycroft's Christmas party. However, he makes the mistake of being a tease beforehand. </p><p>John makes him pay.</p><p>Part 6 of the Off-Kilter Series and a fill for the lovely and patient platinum-clitoris!</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Tis The Season

“Are you sure I couldn’t be tortured or shot instead?” Sherlock’s voice rings hollowly from the bedroom. John grins in anticipation.

“If you want to chicken out and wear a tuxedo, by all means. I’m sure Mycroft would be thrilled.”

“Bastard.” Sherlock sounds sulky. There’s not much he wants less than to please Mycroft, and John knows it. Also, the kilt is marvelously theatrical, and Sherlock can never resist drama. Sure enough, he comes out of the room in a swirl of tartan and strikes a graceful pose.

“Not bad.” John has to force himself to remain noncommittal. In fact, Sherlock looks utterly marvelous, his jacket beautifully cut, his shirt snow-white, and his beautiful kilt hangs perfectly. His legs are, of course, beautifully shaped in wool socks, and John suddenly feels both short and plain. Also, perhaps a little old.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m not playing to your vanity any more. Let’s go.”

“Mycroft likes to be kept waiting. It’s very proper.”

“So then let’s not do it.” John is ready to be gone. Really, if he’s honest with himself, he’s ready to be back. At home, with just Sherlock and that kilt. 

“Your outfit is missing something.” Sherlock says.

“Yours might be missing a punch in the face. Let’s go!”

“No, no, no rush. Hmmm. What is it?” Sherlock walks around John, looking at him. He’s wearing a meditative face that John is certain is fake. “Oh, I know.” 

And he swoops in for a kiss that is entirely too debauched for so early in the evening, all tongue and promise. John leans into him with a groan, feeling Sherlock’s hand come down and cup his cock inside his trousers, touching it with long, agile fingers until John is almost hard. Then, smiling possessively, he steps back.

“That’s it. The trousers weren’t hanging quite right.”

John rolls his eyes. 

“This is payback, isn’t it? So mature.”

“I am merely looking out for the sartorial interests of my beloved partner. Now, I believe the car has arrived, so we can make our merry way down the stairs.” He shrugs into his coat and saunters out. 

John collects his overcoat and keys, shaking his head. He probably shouldn’t encourage Sherlock in this silly tit-for-tat revenge game, but it is terribly enjoyable. Also, he has one or two tricks stowed away if Sherlock gets too high-handed. Which he will. 

________

In the car, there’s a glass window between them and their driver. John sits, pointedly, facing Sherlock and puts on his most pleasant expression. 

“Dear John, have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”

“Not as such, no.”

“I think you should come closer.”

“I think I’m fine here, thanks.”

“Any chance of an advance on those filthy things you promised?” Sherlock’s whole voice is a leer.

“Hmmm.” John pretends to be thinking. “No, you know, I think I would have preferred the trousers.” Sherlock clearly doesn’t believe him, so he lays it on thicker. 

“You look just a wee bit of a prat in that, don’t you think?”

“Wasn’t that your point, John?”

“Partly. I don’t like Mycroft much either. He uses you.”

“Yes, but I know why, this time. So don’t worry about it. Worry about me instead.”

“I worry about you constantly. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you definitely don’t buy milk…” 

“Don’t be boring on purpose, John.” Sherlock slides his legs open.

“I already know you’re not wearing pants, Sherlock.” John grins. He’s definitely winning this round so far.

There’s silence in the cab for the rest of the ride; Sherlock is sulking, and John is enjoying his victory. 

When they arrive, the room is already quite full. When Sherlock sweeps in in his regalia, heads turn. John, largely unnoticed, sees Mycroft’s face go blank in disapproval, just for a second, then re-compose itself. The only thing that points to his continued irritation is a slight folding of his lips. John grins inwardly. Serve him right too, using Sherlock as a chess piece.

John follows Sherlock down the room. He’s used to being at Sherlock’s side, but they’re still working on the whole romantic partner rather than plain old partner, and even though he knows that Mycroft must already know about them, he’s feeling a little diffident. 

Which is why, when, when they’re ten feet from Mycroft, John is utterly horrified to feel Sherlock sweep him into a kiss. 

“You bastard!” John mutters against Sherlock’s lips, trying to keep his balance.

Sherlock presses his mouth to John’s just a little longer, then lets John free. 

“Mistletoe,” he says, pointing up.

John gives him an evil glance. Oh, the world’s only consulting detective is going to get it. 

______________

He bides his time. They greet Mycroft, who looks unflappable, of course, then get drinks, and work the room as promised. Sherlock talks to the people Mycroft wants assessed, John chats, too, in what looks like a random pattern but isn’t; he’s chatting pleasantly to the people on the fringes: the diplomats’ wives, husbands, children. Lots of information to be had. 

When he notices Sherlock walking towards the hallway where the lavatories are located, he grins and follows. He waits until Sherlock has gone through the heavy oak door of the men’s room before he goes in himself, though. 

 

Sherlock is leaning nonchalantly on the counter by the sinks, back to the door. John is swift, and as silent as he can be, and he’s gratified to hear Sherlock’s exclamation of suprise as John twists his arm up and propels him into a stall. 

“Oof.” John would be more gentle, but he has learned, since that fateful Hallowe’en party, that Sherlock, for some reason, likes to be manhandled. He presses him just a little harder up against the wall, then runs his free hand down Sherlock’s body and grabs the hem of the kilt. 

“Mmmm…” 

“Make any noise, Sherlock, and this is all off.” Sherlock quivers a little at that, but for once, miraculously, holds his tongue. John is thrilled about that, because he’s already unbelievably hard at the sight of Sherlock braced against the wall, head bowed, kilt already a little disarranged. He runs his hand up inside the kilt, and he’s suddenly disoriented; he’s flashing back to his last year of medical school, when he and Judy Sims would shag like mad in one particular supply cupboard. She’d been a terror for wearing skirts without knickers, Judy Sims, and it never failed to get his attention. 

Sherlock wriggles impatiently, and John comes back to himself. He presses Sherlock hard into the wall, making sure that Sherlock can feel how hard he is against Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock pushes back, and John steps back out of the way, just enough to tease. He trails his fingers across the tartan fabric, then scoops down and reaches around the front, teasingly caressing Sherlock’s thighs before moving up to his cock. John inhales- Sherlock is excited, very hard already and pushing into his hand enthusiastically. 

God, he feels like a teenager again. What he really wants right now is to be inside Sherlock, to take him and make him see stars, but they’re not really ready for that, yet. Instead, he moves his thumb carefully around the tip of Sherlock’s cock, spreading the sticky, salty fluid he finds there over the sensitive head. Sherlock bows his head, breathing more quickly. 

As he strokes, slowly and carefully, John pushes his own, clothed cock against Sherlock’s arse again, enjoying the improbably lazy rhythm. They’re in a lavatory in one of the least accessible buildings in London, and they’re doing something that would likely get them arrested. A shiver goes down John’s spine, and he increases the tempo just a little. Sherlock is pushing back against him now, sighing, and John loses himself in the rhythm of their thrusts, feeling the pleasure coil and mount. 

When Sherlock starts tensing, John slows down, tearing himself away from his own trajectory to indulge in something else: the pleasure of watching Sherlock lose control. He takes his hand off Sherlock’s cock—Sherlock almost makes a disapproving noise, but catches himself—and backs away.

“Turn around and lean against the wall. Don’t say anything.” John lets go of Sherlock’s right arm. Sherlock does as he is told. 

John still can’t quite believe he’s going to be able to touch this man. Sherlock on an ordinary day is a beautiful human specimen. Sherlock in a formal jacket and a kilt, excited nearly to the point of orgasm, is beyond beauty. Hair tousled, pupils dilated, mouth pink and open—it’s almost too much to take.

John drops to his knees. To hell with his suit.

He takes his time removing the sporran and dragging the kilt up over Sherlock’s cock, which jumps when the fabric is drawn over the sensitive head. Once it’s free, beautiful and heavy, John leans forward and breathes on the end, and Sherlock’s muscles clench. 

Sherlock’s ragged exhalation when it slides into John’s mouth may be exactly why John has forbidden Sherlock from speaking. John lives for those excited noises, eloquent in a way Sherlock’s words only attempt to be.

He is increasing the suction now, holding the base of Sherlock’s cock tightly in one hand. Sherlock is thrusting into his mouth already; John lets him get close once again, then backs off, stroking and licking lightly. They go back and forth several times, until John is so hard that he’s closer to coming in his pants than he’s been since he was sixteen, and Sherlock is trembling in excitement and frustration. 

John looks up at Sherlock and slides as much of his length as he can take into his mouth. Sherlock is trying to look right at John but the sensation is too much and he closes his eyes. John resumes the pressure with hands and mouth, and this time he coaxes him over the edge. Sherlock comes hard and in silence; the sound of their breath fills the stall as his body arches in pleasure. 

John straightens up, pushing his own erection against Sherlock’s still-hard cock. Sherlock fumbles at John’s trouser zip and slips his hands into the soft red pants he finds there. John’s cock is damp and aching, and once Sherlock’s long fingers are wrapped around him, it only takes a few strokes before he too climaxes, as quietly as he can given the circumstances. He collapses against Sherlock, drained and blissful.

“I presume I can speak now?” Sherlock’s post-coital voice is deep enough to send tremors through John’s whole body. 

“I suppose, although I was enjoying the quiet.”

Sherlock snorts.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“It was one hour and four minutes.”

“And?”

“You win this round.”

John grins all the way home.


End file.
